Johnlock drabble oneshots
by Usagi Elric
Summary: well, pretty much what the title says! Going to rate it as M just in case, but that will be few and far between.
1. Piano

**A/N: Okay, this is going to be a collection of drabbles/oneshots vased on headcanons and/or prompts that I get! Since writing Johnlock is the ones thing I enjoy most and can do for days on end without having to think all that hard on what to type, I'm gonna write as much as I can. I hope to get prompts and whatnot from you! please? This one is based on a headcanon on tumblr that Sherlock learned to play as a child. If you want to listen to the song, go to youtube, and search up "bliss rob costlow" and it should be the first one. It's a beautiful composition and is great to listen to with reading! **

"What are we doing here?" John said, having enough of the raven-haired man not answering him and freezing in the doorway of the musty room. Sherlock had no choice but to turn and humour the doctor, seeing as he obviously wasn't going to move again until he got an answer. "We're on an investigation, obviously! I'm looking for things, any things." He said, trailing off, his eyes averting to a nearby wall, as he spotted a small detail, John rolled his eyes as Sherlock walked past him like a ghost, striding to the wall to examine it closely. John wandered into the other room on the right, opposite to the direction of Sherlock. He spotted something in the middle of the room, near a large window, almost the height of the wall and just as wide.

"Sherly, come look. Tell me what you make of this." He called to the other room over his shoulder. Sherlock strode into the room, taking an alarming short amount of time, due to his long strides, partially due to the irritation, "What have I told you about calling me that?" He said down in annoyance. "Yeah, yeah. Look." Said John, pointing over to the while billowy shape. Sherlock's brow creased, and he slowly walked over, he stalked a circle around the object, running a hand over it in his way. Once he was back to where he started, he stopped.

He grabbed a fistful of the cloth that was draped dustily over it, and with one swift, strong, elegant seep of his arms, he had completely exposed it. The black, glossy finish reflected the murky light flawlessly, it was a grand piano. Sherlock had known that since he first laid eyes on it, the general shape was enough, and the slight light filtering through the sheet that only he would notice had proven to him it's form. He gingerly pressed a few keys absently, and suddenly realised that he recognised the melody. He took the few steps over to the pianist stool, flicking his coat back before setting upon it.

He sat with perfect posture, his hands lightly brushing over the keys as if contemplating whether to play or not. They automatically fell into chord position, and before he knew it, he had played the first four bars. He paused for a moment, just the right amount to fit the timing, then played the same part again. He thought back to when he first learned this progression; he was a child at the time, and had quickly adapted to the ways of a pianist, the impeccable discipline and coordination, the composure and concentration.

Growing up he would hear the melody in his head often, he felt as though it spoke his emotions, or rather his two only ones, the ones he hadn't been able to completely shut off from. He called them emotions but they really weren't, they were his two most prominent, almost phases, of his daily life. The slower parts of the song, when the tempo lowered and an octave was dropped, he thought of as the lower times, when he resorted to cocaine, smoking, and other destructive methods. When he couldn't help but feel the depression slowly slither and weed it's way into the corners of his mind.

The faster paced sections, the higher stung tempo and the light delicate keys of the sixth and seventh octaves, coagulating beautifully with the third and second, were for when he was more tightly bound. His mind would race a thousand years ahead of pace and he couldn't keep up with his own thoughts. Light-years seemingly passing in mere milliseconds, and before he knew it, he hadn't slept in over a week and hadn't eaten in even longer. This was the way he had interpreted it back then.

He reached the hook, the bridge. He closed his eyes as his fingers tranced across the keys expertly, and he could feel the deeper bass-like notes and quavers, semiquavers and rests on his fingertips like tattoos and print, and see them in his mind like a film. He found himself rethinking his standing point.

Another section, with a drawn out slowness. Now instead of depression and drugs, starving and general ill health, he thought of John. Of the times they spent together just alone. They would be cuddled up in his double bed in the early hours of the morning, or on the floor by the fire, late in the evening. The times when all was quiet, but he wasn't his dangerous bored. He wasn't bored, because he was happy. There needed no words to be spoken, they could just feel what the other was saying or thinking. He would toy with John's hand, lacing his own with it, and feeling the gentle warmth and softness brushing against his own pale skin. Pulling him closer for warmth and comfort, his very being seeming to fill Sherlock with love and comfort.

Another bridge, another furiously fast and multifarious chord progression. His hands now moved with record timing not to keep up, but guide the descant into tangible sound instead of a strand of memories and ideas. Decisively and elegantly pressing the keys so fast his fingers tingled and were almost a blur. Again not thinking of racing thoughts and insanity, or accidental bodily harm, but again of John. The more adventurous times they spent together. When they would be on the run from someone, or more commonly chasing down a suspected murderer. He knew that at any moment they could be killed, and it wasn't so much his own harm that would cause him any hesitation, but John's. He loved the thrill of the chase, the game; he loved it with his Doctor Watson. How they would simply nod at each other with a knowing look and immediately have a plan, a rather cunning and smart, complicated and genius plan together.

The thunderously gentle song came to a close, and he opened his eyes slowly, looking down at his hands hovering ghostly over the ivory and obsidian keys. He was almost frozen, with a smile gracing his lips, thinking through his shock over his dramatic change of outlook. John saw what was going on inside his labyrinthian mind palace and walked over to put a hand on the younger's shoulder. "I didn't know you could play, why didn't you tell me?" He asked, to receive a revelation for an answer. "Only for you." Sherlock said quietly, looking up at John with a smile, and taking hold of the hand on his shoulder.


	2. Ambulance

Footsteps thundered down the cold streets of London in the dark of the night, Sherlock and John ran in synchronisation. For the fifth time since their first meeting, they were chasing yet another person that the incompetent police had yet to even suspect. They started to gain on him, Sherlock's endurance and John's military experience made them both exceptional long-distance runners, compared to the person ahead of them, obviously having a hard time putting one foot in front of the other.

Sherlock and John shared looks; the raven-haired cocked a brow, to which the blonde replied with a nod. Sherlock pushed himself faster ahead, and broke off to the left down a smaller street. John continued the chase, his breathing only just becoming hard, but he worked well to keep it steady. The man ahead only just noticed the lack of footsteps, and turned his head, to see that he was missing pursuer. He turned back around to avoid tripping over, and ran chest-long into the barrel of a gun.

"Well done Doctor Watson, I assume you are alright?" Said Sherlock, his breath huffing out in tendrils of condensation. John nodded again, his hands leaning on his thighs, bending him over to catch his breath, but stood up to walk over to his friend. The murderer at gunpoint was frozen, but in the moment of Sherlock's distraction, he pulled an army knife out of the sheath strapped to his leg, and dashed forwards to plunge it into his abdomen.

"Gahh!" A choked cry rung out, but from the wrong voice. "John!" Sherlock cried, He raised his arm stiffly and shot the other man in the leg to immobilise him, and let the gun fall, as he dropped to his knees beside his wounded companion. The criminal limped away regardless, but Sherlock couldn't care less, his mind was fixated on John. "John what the bloody hell did you that for?!" He asked agitatedly, but worried at the same time. "Well I couldn't let him get **you**!" He spluttered in return, tasting blood in the back of his mouth. Sherlock fumbled for his phone, eventually pulling it out of his pocket.

He dialled triple-nine and barked orders at the lady on the receiving end. He jammed it back into his pocket, and returned to tending over John. "You know," He panted "You could serve to be a bit nicer." Sherlock gave him an incredulous look, "Really John, now is not the time to be scolding my manners! Now, you're a doctor what do I do?!" He asked in panic. "John blinked as his vision wavered for a second. "Uhhh...t-try to stop the bleeding." He said, while pulling his fingers up to pathetically attempt at pulling his jacket off. Sherlock over took him, and gently pulled it off him, using it to place over the wound, to try and stifle the blood pouring from the puncture.

The doctor's eyes fluttered again, and Sherlock noticed this time, he put a hand to his cheek and tapped it gently, "No; no! John, stay with me!" He ordered. He muttered to himself unintelligible things about nothing, cursing the ambulance for taking so long, plotting revenge on the bastard who had hurt John, and several other things.

Every second felt like an hour, and after 5 minutes, John's breathing was worse for wear, and Sherlock was starting to panic. Just as he was about to start yelling and swearing, sirens came into earshot, and Sherlock did shout, only in relief this time. "Finally! John, just hold on, alright? Just a few moments more." He reassured him, almost pleading, just as the blonde's eyes shut fully, his breathing short and laboured.

The stark white and green vehicle backed up within a few seconds and before it had even stopped, the medics were hitting the ground running, and at his side. It took some shoving, but they made Sherlock back off a few steps, and despite his general disposition against emotions, he found himself running his hands through his hair in worry, his heart racing as he tried his best to keep his eyes on Watson at all times.

As soon as John was in the vehicle, Sherlock was bounding up into it, and when the female medic asked him to say where he was, he gave her a glass-melting glare and said sternly, "I'm riding with him." She gave him a stiff nod, and moved over to the side, as Sherlock took a seat, as close to his flatmate as he could get. He bent over, to talk quietly into John's ear, to make sure that he heard. While the medic's worked over him, the blonde tried to move his arm towards his companion, but all he could manage was get it to fall off the bed.

Sherlock didn't fail to notice, and reached out to curl his fingers around the other's hand, and squeeze tightly, and got a twitch and a gently clasp in return. Sherlock leaned even closer to mutter, "Don't you dare die on me, John Watson. I have a lot of things I need to tell you, starting with," He lowered his voice to a whisper, "I love you…"


End file.
